


Cold Tea

by gingerbreadlove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Leo Fitz Feels, Post-Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 06:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerbreadlove/pseuds/gingerbreadlove
Summary: Post-Framework Leo Fitz dealing with his guilt and trying to shut himself off to protect everyone. Luckily he has a heart and Jemma is not going to lose him again.





	Cold Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while back, so it's not set in space. Uhm, yeah, I could go into more detail, but I'll just let you read haha. I apologize for displaying the big hurting heart of Leopold Fitz, but we all know he's hurting and even though I don't want to think about it, I still do, thus this happens.

Fitz stared blankly at his cup of tea--now cold. The surface shivered as a salty tear collided with the dark liquid.

 

He heard his father’s voice call him out on this.

 

_ Weak. _

 

Fitz pressed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth together. 

 

_ Pathetic.  _ The voice taunted. 

 

He trembled, bringing his hands up over the back of his neck, and leaning forward. He willed the voice to go away as he breathed shakily, wanting to curl further into a ball. To curl up tighter and tighter and tighter until his body had folded into itself infinitely and he had disappeared.

 

_ It’s all your fault. _ Another voice inside of him shouted.

 

He nodded, hot tears melting down his face. It  _ was _ his fault. All of it.

 

His mouth hung open, wanting to scream, wanting to sob...wanting to...stop his breath. 

 

His throat tightened shut, barricading against a heavy, tear-ridden breath. His wet face contorted, letting silent, quivering exhales escape instead. He felt his own fingers trail up through his long, mussed curls.

 

Someone rapped softly on the door, and a shiver ran up his spine.

 

“Fitz?” Jemma’s tentative voice sung out hopefully.

 

He buried his face in his palms, stifling sobs with their pressure. His eyes burned and his throat ached from trying to stay silent. 

 

“Fitz...” She sighed, and he could almost see her palm pressed up against the opposite side of the door. 

 

He shook his head. He knew she wanted to help him through this, but he didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve help at all. Didn't deserve to be comforted. 

 

He deserved to sit here alone and suffer for his actions. He hadn't been imprisoned, so he would imprison himself.

 

“...I’ll come back by later…” Jemma whispered, sounding sad.

 

Fitz felt his heart crumple a little bit with regret. Maybe he should talk to her. Stop pushing her away before his wall was too high to get past. But the voice inside him shook its head, glaring at him.

 

_ You don’t deserve her. _

 

It spat convincingly. There was enough proof. So many people had died because of him.

 

_ You nearly killed her. _

 

In his sleep, he still saw himself pointing the gun at her head. _ “You mean nothing to me...I mean nothing to you...SAY IT!” _ He still felt the cold gun barrel in his palm, and shivered in response to the nightmare-ish memory. He would never pick up a gun again.

 

_ You may love her...  _

 

He did love her. He had told Ophelia as much. There was only room in his heart for Jemma.

 

_ She may have forgiven you, but you don’t deserve to have her. _

 

He saw the look in her eyes everytime they crossed paths. She didn't hold anything against him. She didn't believe that the man in the Framework had been him. But she was wrong. That man was inside him now. The Doctor was a part of his history. 

 

For years and years, Fitz had been comforted by the sure fact that he could never become his father. He was convinced that he was different. His heart was  _ different _ . But he'd been wrong. The Framework had proven that Fitz was just like his dad. He  _ was  _ capable of becoming that man--that  _ monster _ . 

 

He shook with another sob.  _ He was a monster. _ Just like his father. Just like Ward. He was no different from them.  _ No different _ .

 

His weak body trembled with agony. He had done all those things. Tortured all those people. Because of  _ him _ , Mace was dead...Agnes was dead...Davis was dead. They were all  _ dead _ because of  _ him _ . Because of what  _ he _ had created.

 

His mind surfaced with an idea but he gulped it down, tossing it into the furthest back corner of his brain where he hoped it would never appear again. He didn't need any more  _ grand ideas _ . At the commotion of the new invention, his head swirled like a cloud of dust. His rejection of the thought had stirred up a swarm of other ideas that he'd shoved into the back of his mind in the past month. His hands pressed heavily against his skull. 

 

_ Stop _ ! He wanted to scream. His mind swam. 

 

_ These ideas will help people. You can protect everyone. _

 

But he shook his head violently. 

 

_ No! _ His brain strained against the bursting force of his ideas, coupled with the way he analyzed each one in an instant. 

 

_ They could  _ all _ be used to hurt people _ . He wouldn't let that happen again. He had hurt more people than he ever meant to with his inventions already. Anything could be used for bad, so he would just  _ not invent anything _ . 

 

His left hand trembled frighteningly, and he opened his glossy, reddened eyes. His gaze fell across the room to his open sketchbook. His idea book. His mind longed to pour itself out onto those pages.

 

He got up shakily, knees feeling like liquid underneath him, but he crossed the small room. He snatched up the book, and burst out of his room, nearly running down the hall in his urgency. 

 

_ Nobody _ could have these ideas.

 

He swept into the lab, startling all the scientists. They all gaped at him. It was reasonable to stare. He hadn't been in the lab since the Framework had shut down. He wore dark circles around his red eyes, his hair hadn’t been brushed or cut in weeks, and his beard was overgrown and messy. He looked horrendous. Jemma’s eyes grew wide as she watched him enter the lab in a frenzy. 

 

“Fitz…” She breathed, taken aback by his sudden appearance. She reached out to him. 

 

He had his mind set, though, and brushed right past her. The ventilation hood was straight in the back. He threw his sketchbook inside, and grabbed a lighter, setting the book aflame.  _ Nobody would use his ideas for bad ever again _ . He snapped the glass shut as the pages lit up in a bright blaze.

 

“Fitz!” Jemma called, rushing over. She shoved him to the side, gasping, and a cloud of white smoke filled the chamber.

 

Fitz stood, stunned--both at Jemma’s actions and his own. 

 

Jemma dropped the red fire extinguisher can to the ground with a metallic clang. 

 

“Fitz, what was that about?” She demanded, turning to face him. 

 

He exhaled a shaky breath, trembling as his eyes filled with tears. The heels of his palms raised to his temples. His wide, frightened eyes were trained on his burnt sketchbook.

 

“I--I--” He stuttered, suddenly unable to think clearly. What had he done?

 

Jemma’s eyes softened, and she wiped white foam from her brow. Her hand settled on Fitz’s shoulder. 

 

“Come on,” Her voice was gentle and soothing. “Let me make you some tea.”

 

Fitz gulped and nodded, unable to come up with a response. Jemma’s arm was wrapped around his back, guiding him through the halls.

 

His heartbeat was a loud drum echoing through his hollow body, and his mind felt empty. 

 

He felt nothing. 

 

The next moment, he was led into Jemma’s room, where she had him sit down on her bed while she prepared tea. 

 

Her room felt warm and full of life; different from his own, although all the rooms on base were practically identical. 

 

His own room felt painfully indifferent. It wasn’t warm or cold, but it gave him chills anyway. The tan walls were too bright in his room, but still dark enough to make it feel like a cell. 

 

Jemma’s lights were adjusted perfectly, making it inviting and comfortable. The sweet scent of black tea and fresh lilac soap floated through the air, giving the room an energy and life. His room just felt empty--like him. 

 

A tear slid down his cheek and he took another shaky breath. Jemma pressed a hot mug into his hands, and sat down right beside him, her side brushing his. Her warmth radiated into him, and another tear spilled over his bottom lashes. He stared into the water, the tea leaves permeating the clarity with dark, cloudy swirls.

 

Jemma leaned her head onto his shoulder, taking a slow breath. “Please talk to me, Fitz.” She whispered, watching his hands fiddle with his mug.

 

His stomach swam with unease. 

 

_ Talk to her. She can help.  _ A piece of his mind encouraged him.

 

_ You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve help. Not after what you did. _ Another part of him claimed.

 

He took a deep sigh, his tea rippling along with his shaking hands. His throat was achy and dry as he opened his mouth. A soft cry escaped his parted lips, and he sniffed, raising the back of his hand to his eyes. Jemma removed the mug from his hand, setting it on the table and placing her hand softly onto his other shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to find his voice.

 

“I--” His voice came out raspy and gravelled. He swallowed, wincing. Jemma’s gentle eyes watched him with patience. “I’m sorry…” He glanced at her, eyes full of tears, and lips pressed into a wobbly line. 

 

A tear trailed down her cheek but her eyes didn’t leave his. She pursed her lips with care, not wanting to hear him blame himself another time. 

 

“Fitz, don’t…” She began softly, looking down at his hands and shaking her head in the slightest way.

 

He brought his eyes back to hers, guilt weighing heavily upon him. 

 

“It’s just all my fault...all of it…” His voice ran dry, and she hugged him tighter. “...I created all of that...I don’t deserve…” He was shaking his head, trembling.

 

Jemma unwrapped her arms from around him, and cupped his face between her palms. Her brown eyes looked into his sapphire ones with warm desperation. “No.” She told him. “Leo James Fitz, you can’t blame yourself for how other people  _ used _ your inventions--how other people used  _ you _ . In the Framework...that wasn’t  _ you _ . You, Fitz, are a sweet, caring, clever,” Her eyes were watering as she fervently translated her thoughts into words, trying to convey everything to him--to convince him that he shouldn’t blame himself, “awkward, brilliant, heroic scientist, and I can’t bear to watch you blame yourself. What they did to you--it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your choice. You are not a bad man--no matter who the Framework produced. Your heart shows who you are, and I know that you would never have chosen any of that. The very fact that you feel guilty for all that happened--that is what proves that you don’t need to be--what proves that this wasn’t you.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks as well as hers.

 

He wrapped his hands gently around her shoulders, leaning his head forward so that his forehead rested on hers. 

 

Jemma’s words were like a soothing blanket over Fitz’s mind, and he relaxed for the first time in weeks. For the first moment since leaving the Framework, he allowed himself to believe that all of this wasn’t his fault, and a pressure lifted from his shoulders. Jemma’s warm embrace surrounded him as he melted into her arms, and he let tears trickle from his eyes. “I’m sorry...for pushing you away…” His voice wavered, thick with emotions. 

 

Jemma curled around him further, cradling his upper body protectively, and letting her legs intertwine with his. “Shhhh…” She soothed, her voice trembling with tears as well.

 

They sat like that for a while. Jemma curled around Fitz in a way that convinced him he was worth something. Eventually, the trembling ceased and they were just two sniffling figures wrapped in each other’s arms.  

 

“...I missed you.” Jemma whispered softly through the last of her tears.

 

Fitz nodded his head softly in her grasp. “I’m here now.” His voice was weak, but calm and steady now. It wasn’t filled with the deep weight of pain that it had been an hour ago. 

 

This was only the beginning of the long road back to who he’d been, but now, in this moment, Fitz could live with himself. He didn’t feel responsible for everything. He didn’t feel like a bomb that needed to be destroyed. He was comforted and at home in Jemma’s arms. 

 

He opened his eyes and stared softly at his cup of tea--now cold. But Jemma’s body warmed him, and his heart felt more whole than it had in weeks. He was stronger now. Strong enough to be the man he needed to be.

 


End file.
